The Arrow
by Tiaril
Summary: Tiaril makes a living as a problem-solver, on a national level. But when he is sent to solve a 'problem' for the court of Bruma, he's got more than gold coming his way...


**The Arrow**

Tiaril waited. He'd been tracking for days, and at last he'd found the Dremora. He thought of himself as a poor ranger, given largely to the fact that he was quivering with adrenaline. Of course, he used to be worse. And towns still hired him, still offered him lodging. Not that he ever took such lodgings. A cave is the best way to sleep. The wilderness was his home. Still people asked him why he laughed when the lords of those luxurious castles offered him the customary night's stay. Still, nobody knew about his little hideouts, all over Cyrodiil.

Enough thinking. A flash of red. Those foolish, proud Dremora. Forever believing themselves strong, invincible, in their godly armour. Shining, strong, visible. Tiaril breathed, calmed himself. Can you see me, demon? I can see you.

He crept forward, drawing his ancient Ayleid dagger. Shatterthorn gleamed red as it tasted the raw magical power of a Dremora. An archer. Churl. No threat. But still capable of relaying information. A knife to the throat. The Dremora stopped moving, snarled. The Ayleid were skilled smiths. "The Ayleid were dead when I last came here. They destroyed themselves!" the Churl growled.

"Yes, they're gone. And yet I still destroy you with their labours. Can you feel, Churl? Do scum like you have souls?"

"Scum like me are better than your pitiful, _stealthy_ ways, mortal!"

"Maybe. But you're still dead," stated Tiaril.

Slit. Drop. Dead. He took a moment to cut out the unholy thing's heart. Alchemical ingredients like that were rare.

The scout taken care of, he turned his attention to the main host. South of here. Good. The further from Bruma they were, the better. He ran silently, his light leather boots gliding over the undergrowth as if he were not there. As he applied poison after poison to arrow after arrow, his huge ears and powerful nose told him everything he needed to know about the enemy party, working out his strategy as he ran, his arrows ready, coated with caustic, paralyzing, stinking substances.

A mage. Markynaz. Not too much of a threat, given the powerful silencing poison covering his first arrow. The rest were stuck into the tree he was perched on. He took a deep breath, and…

Sailing. Soaring. Arcing like the years, the years of hunting, of waiting, of planning. All his fear, all his adrenaline, all his skill, went into that first arrow. The silver burnt, the poison unbound, the mage was gone in seconds, unable to cast even a simple healing spell. Quickly, before those in front of their mage leader registered the windy _thunk_ of an arrow in a demonic neck, he planted arrow after arrow in another head, another chest, another arm. It didn't matter where he hit; the poisons would kill them before he dropped to the forest floor in the hail of returning fire.

Like a monkey, like an angel, like only a Bosmer could, he leapt from his tree, rolled, stabbed. Shatterthorn took another life. Not that these proud, arrogant minds could ever be called lives. A quick headcount. No mages left, twelve swordsmen, nine of which were paralyzed. The archers were the problem. He used his skills, and three seconds later the warriors that weren't paralyzed may as well have been anyway, along with the rest of their proud, stick-waving brothers. He leapt directly upwards, grabbed a tree branch, and launched himself towards the two archers left. For the third time, Shatterthorn was sated. He whirled, readied himself to stab again, and –

An impact.

A sharp pain.

A cold feeling.

He looked down, embarrassed at having pissed himself. But it wasn't urine. It was too red for that. An arrow stuck out of his crotch, a third of its shaft buried, at an angle that would have been comical if it hadn't been him. Unable to make use of any muscles in his back or legs, he simply slit the Dremora's throat. It died with that arrogant smile on its face.

A cave. Find shelter. He lowered his brown hood, whirled his head, looking for refuge. There. A mine. It would do. He dragged himself, struggling to keep his back and legs straight. There wasn't much bleeding, not yet. He pulled himself into his damp shelter, and with a scream of agony tore out the arrow. Applying bandages, herbs and salves with the practiced frenzy of an experienced wilderness dweller, his last thoughts as he slipped under were of his strategy. He should've planned for more than two hours. He had had the time. It was a miscalculation, that was all.

Just a miscalculation…


End file.
